CHAPTER SIX
I’m staring at the spreadsheet again. The once-clinical black numbers have developed their own presence; they cross the divide between my eyes and the computer screen and beat malevolently into my brain. Two small alterations were all that was required for the verdict to go from “solvent, for now” to “completely underwater”: a change in tax law that means a hefty payment cannot be deferred, and my landlord demanding an increase in rent, which he’s entitled to do at this point in the lease, though the size of the increase he’s asking for is outrageous. I can fight him on it, I will fight him on it—or at least, I want to fight him on it, but that will cost money the business doesn’t have. He probably suspects this and is trying to squeeze me out. With more detachment I might admire his Machiavellian streak, but right now admiration is not high on my list of feelings. Ditto detachment.
I drop my head into my hands to escape the spreadsheet’s toxic radiation. I could move the business location somewhere cheaper—my living room, say, or perhaps somewhere more extreme, like Croydon or Thailand—but not whilst keeping Paul, and without headhunters, is there really any life in a headhunting firm? It was a key part of my business plan that I not be a one-woman shop: numbers inspire confidence. Though not the ones in this spreadsheet.
“You okay, Kate?” asks Julie, as she comes in from the outer office.
I lift my head quickly and paste on a smile for her. She has her glasses in one hand and is pinching the bridge of her nose with the other. I wonder why she doesn’t wear contact lenses, but not enough to ask. “Fine,” I say brightly, probably too brightly. “Just a headache from too much screen time.”
“I’m popping out for a sandwich. Want me to grab you anything?”
“No, thanks, I’ll get something later and give my legs a stretch.”
“Okay.” She glances across at Paul’s empty desk, frowns briefly, then turns to go.
“Julie, what’s Paul’s schedule today?” I ask casually.
She turns back. “I’m not sure,” she says awkwardly. “I thought he’d be here now.”
“Mmmm.” I tap my teeth with a pen, then realize she’s still there, unsure of whether to leave or not. “No worries.” I adopt a reassuringly cheerful tone. There’s an emptiness in my stomach; it’s growing and hardening. “I’ll give him a call. Go on and get your lunch.”
“All right.”
All right. All right. No, nothing much is all right, but I have to go on as if it is. I sigh and lift the phone to vehemently threaten my landlord with legal action I can’t afford.
Alain Modan. Monsieur Modan. French detective, Investigateur, OPJ—and whisperer of naughty things in the perfect ear of my best friend, Lara. Alain Modan is sitting on a sofa opposite me once again, though this time we’re in a comfortable corner of Starbucks rather than my living room.
I have little patience today. I can feel it inside me; there’s a recklessness bubbling up around the malignant tumor of worry about my business, a recklessness that’s pushing me to want to cut through bullshit, to tell and hear it straight, to face the worst and know what I’m up against right now. Alain Modan is probably the last person I should be talking to in this mental condition, but I am here and so is he; we have our coffees and we’ve covered the pleasantries—with no mention of Lara—so now we begin.
“Alors,” says Modan, placing a manila folder on the table and flipping through his pad. He’s removed the jacket of his suit; underneath is a slim-fitting pale blue shirt. I wonder if the skin under that shirt has the same soft grain as that on his face; I wonder if there is a tangle of chest hair under that spotless cotton. Perhaps it’s his French flair that makes me consider these things, or perhaps I’m trying to see through Lara’s eyes. Perhaps both.
Modan’s eyes have moved from his pad to my face. I force myself to focus. “I should bring you up to speed, non?” He sounds pleased with himself for the figure of speech.
I glance at the folder. In films, folders like this one—this size, this shape, this color—always hold photos, gruesome murder scenes frozen in an instant of time. Bodies at awkward angles; blood pooled beneath caved heads; open, staring eyes: death immortalized forever. I don’t want to see inside this folder. “Go ahead,” I say shortly.
“You are in a hurry?” he asks, his mouth quirking.
“Not especially, but I do have a business to run.” I almost laugh as I hear the words from my mouth, though it’s not in the least bit funny.
He nods. “Of course. Well, we have found one of the builders, Monsieur Casteau. He has gone through his paperwork, which states that the well was filled in on the Friday. The day before you left.”
“Bullshit.”
He looks at me. “Excuse me?”
“Bull. Shit,” I say clearly. “You have six”—I shake my head abruptly: Theo. Not six, not ever again six—“no, five people who can attest to that. The builders did the pool fence while we were there, but I don’t remember them anywhere near the well. The paperwork is wrong and the builder is lying.” The recklessness is spilling over; I struggle to stamp it down.
Modan is not fazed by my combativeness. “It was a long time ago,” he allows. “And Monsieur Casteau thinks it was his brother who actually did the work on the well; he can’t remember doing it himself.”
“And what does the brother say?”
“We haven’t been able to speak with him yet. He’s on”—he stretches for the word—“ah, miel, ah, honey . . . moon. Honeymoon, oui?” I nod. “Trekking. In the Himalayas.” He makes a movement with his mouth that shows that yomping through the Himalayas is not his idea of a post-wedding treat.
The folder lies there still, untouched. “Regardless. You have five people who say the well wasn’t filled in. Why are you spending time on this?”
One eyebrow raises a little. “It’s our job to be thorough.”
I press on. “What about the bus driver? He remembers Severine, right?”
He looks at me, his long face displaying nothing except his habitual watchfulness. “The bus driver remembers that a young girl climbed on near the farmhouse and traveled to the station. He described her as wearing dark sunglasses and having her hair tied in a red scarf.”
I see Severine, smoking a cigarette at the end of the garden whilst speaking rapidly on the phone. It’s morning; there’s still a freshness in the air that the sun will beat into submission within an hour or so. Severine’s dressed in her uncompromising black bikini, a red chiffon scarf tied turban-like on her head; her back is to me, and I can see the delicate wings of her shoulder blades moving under her skin as she gestures with her cigarette hand. It’s a look that’s reminiscent of the 1950s, of glamorous movie stars in oversize sunglasses lounging on the French Riviera. At that moment I wish she was gone with an intensity I don’t understand; more than that, I wish she had never been. But today, to Modan I murmur, “Yes. Severine.”
He shrugs, a curiously nonsymmetrical movement that suggests his limbs are moved by a puppet-master. It should be awkward, but not so on Modan. “Perhaps.”
I look at him sharply. “Perhaps?”
He shrugs again, right shoulder then left. “Perhaps.”
“And the CCTV from the bus depot?”
He reaches for the folder and holds it out to me. “Regardez-vous. Please, look.”
I force myself to breathe as I take the folder from him and slowly open it. Inside there is indeed a photo: a grainy image, not so much black-and-white as shades of gray. In among what must be the bus depot forecourt, I can make out a figure that is most likely a slender girl, perhaps with her hair tied under a scarf or perhaps wearing some kind of cap. She appears to be standing by a large bag. I look up at Modan, dismayed. “This is it?”
He raises a couple of fingers briefly, somehow conveying we really tried and c’est la vie in one small movement. “That is the best picture we could get.”
I look back again at the photo. Caro may have exaggerated a little—it’s definitely a person—but her point is still valid: this counts for nothing. I keep looking, as if it’s a digital image that needs time to resolve, but the fuzzy edges refuse to settle into a clear picture. All the while my mind loops over the same cycle: the well, the bus driver, the CCTV image. The well, the bus driver, the CCTV image. One of these things is not like the other . . . the well, the bus driver, the CCTV image . . . one of these things . . .
I thrust the folder back at Modan. “Why are you still here?” I ask him abruptly.
“I have a few more questions—”
“Yes, but why are you still here? As in, in this country?” I interrupt impatiently. “I know you have to be thorough. You’ve been thorough, you’ve spoken to us all, so what’s keeping you here? You have five people who saw her alive on Friday night, you have a bus driver who had someone exactly like her climbing on his bus on Saturday, you have a picture of that same girl at the depot with a bag; it all points pretty clearly to her being alive and well after we left.” The recklessness has its head and won’t be quieted. “But you’re still here, and I can’t figure it out, unless you’re looking for an excuse to spend more time jeopardizing your career by ambushing Lara in airports”—he looks away quickly and rakes a hand through his hair, then fixes wary eyes upon me, but I won’t be derailed—“or unless you actually don’t believe us. Is that it? Do you actually believe that all five of us are lying? Are we in fact suspects?” I stop abruptly. The recklessness is spent.
Modan looks at me for a moment, his face expressionless. I have no doubt he is busy working out how best to handle me. Then his face softens. “Miss Channing,” he says gently. “This is difficult. It is always difficult, murder is . . . alors, murder is not a nice thing. No one wants to think about it too hard; it’s upsetting, it’s intrusive, it is frustrating, it is inconvenient. But to find whoever did this, we have to investigate, we have to ask questions.” He makes one of his elegant hand gestures, spreading his hand wide with the palm up, almost as if inviting me to place my own in it, while his lips move in a sympathetic smile. “So . . . s’il vous plaît . . . may I continue?”
I hold his gaze for a moment. I can’t read what is going on behind those dark, watchful eyes, but I know he’s better at this than me. Better at this than almost everyone, I would think. I’m suddenly exhausted. “Go on,” I say wearily. “Ask your questions.”
Afterward I know I should go back to the office, but I can’t face the possibility of an empty chair opposite me, or staring again at that spreadsheet. Instead I wander aimlessly. A short walk takes me into the throngs on Regent Street. The gaggles of foreign tourists are easy to identify, with their cameras and white socks pulled up and sensible shoes, but what is everyone else doing on a shopping street in the middle of the day? Are they students? Or do they work nights? Do they work at all?
I wonder what I will do when I finally call time on my company. I won’t be able to go back to practicing law: I’m not sure I’d be able to convince any firm that I really wanted to—mainly because I don’t. I suppose I could work for another legal recruitment firm, but my credibility will be damaged by a failed solo venture; it might take quite a while to land any position, let alone one I really want. And the truth is that the one I want is the one that’s slipping away from me right now.
I walk into French Connection then walk back out again. It’s too busy, and anyway, I don’t really have the will or the patience to look at clothes or try anything on. I start walking again and see my reflection moving from one window display to the next, a wraith in a dark trouser suit slipping unnoticed past the mannequins in their forward-thinking summer attire. I could just . . . leave, I think. Get on a plane, find myself somewhere hot and dusty where living costs a pittance. Slough off my skin and take a waitressing job, or tend bar—take any job, unfettered by the pride and expectations that are built up by an Oxbridge education; built up until they wall you in.
My mobile phone rings; number withheld. I hesitate, unwilling to be wrenched back into the real world, but the phone continues to chirp aggressively. I sigh and hit the answer button. “Kate Channing.”
“Hey, it’s Tom. How are you?”
“Halfway to South America.”
There’s half a beat of silence. “Really?” he asks uncertainly.
“No, not really. Just wishful thinking. Bad day.”
“Well, in that case I’m taking the spot on the plane next to you. Bad day here too.” He does in fact sound exhausted. “Want to grab a drink later and commiserate?”
I hesitate. “I’ll be dreadful company,” I warn.
“Yeah, me too,” he says grimly. “We might as well get smashed together rather than poisoning the mood of anyone else.”
“Jesus.” This is a far cry from the easy, steadfast Tom I’m used to. “What happened to you today?”
“Can’t talk here,” he says laconically.
He can’t talk in the office. Intuition strikes me: all those articles about the poor economy and downsizing in the major banks . . . Surely his firm wouldn’t have been so stupid as to agree to relocate him from Boston to London just to fire him? Except I know banks can be exactly that stupid, and more so. “You still have a job, right?” I ask urgently.
“I do. Others . . . not so much.”
“Jesus.” The atmosphere must be awful on the trading floor. “Well, my company is well and truly fucked so I’m just the girl for a truly depressing night on the town. Seven at the same pub we met at before?”
“Done.” He pauses. “Is it really fucked?”
“Yes,” I say baldly. “Only a miracle will suffice at this point.”
I hear a sigh down the phone. “I’m really sorry, Kate.” His words are heartfelt; I feel a rush of warmth toward him.
“I know. I am, too. About your situation, I mean.” About my own, too.
“Well, at least one of us still has a paycheck,” he says with dark humor. “Which means I’m buying tonight. I can keep you fed and watered for one night, at least.”
“No argument from me. See you at seven.”
I disconnect then look up to see my ghostly self hovering in front of a swimwear montage, a smile still in place from the phone call that fades as I watch. The promise of a new life, a different life, still lies tantalizingly in reach. But I have things to do before I meet Tom at seven.
I head back to my office.
I don’t look at the spreadsheet and I don’t look at Paul’s empty chair. Instead I deal with e-mail and bash on determinedly with the calls I have to make. It’s not so much a fighting spirit as a grim fatalism that drives me on: the few contracts we do have, we need to deliver on—on time and in style. Nobody should be able to say Channing Associates failed through a lack of professionalism.
“I’ve got Gordon from Haft & Weil on the phone for you,” calls Julie.
For a moment I consider telling her to take a message. I’ve been expecting a call from him, to tell me he’s awarding the contract to a rival firm. I could do without the final nail in the coffin . . . but why delay the inevitable? “Put him through, please.”
The phone in front of me buzzes after a moment. I find a smile to drape on my lips. “Good afternoon, Gordon. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Is this a good time?”
“Absolutely. Fire away.” Fire away. Not that he can really fire me since he’s never actually hired me, but still, the inadvertent gallows humor amuses me. I will tell Tom that later, I think. I can already see his eyes crinkling above that unmistakable nose.
“I want to tell you that OpCom met last night.” OpCom is the operating committee of Haft & Weil. Whatever recommendation of recruitment firm Gordon made would have had to be ratified by them, but really as a rubber-stamping exercise. “We’ve decided to award the contract to Channing Associates.” He pauses, but I’m literally speechless. “Subject to agreeing final documentation, of course.”
I sit bolt upright and find my voice. “Well. Thank you.” I work hard to sound professional, as if contracts from firms like Haft & Weil drop in my lap every day, but inside the tumor of worry has begun to fizz, dissolving like Alka-Seltzer in water. Yes! Yes! Yes! “That’s wonderful news. I’m . . . well, I’m delighted to hear that, as I’m sure you can imagine. Delighted, and not a little surprised.”
“We felt it was time for some new blood.” I can hear the smile in his voice; he likes it when I’m direct. “And I think you and I will deal well together.”
“I do, too,” I say sincerely. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“On that note, I’ve had a contract drawn up. It’s fairly standard and has the terms we discussed previously. Shall I send it across now?”
“Perfect.” I pause, then add, “Though I should mention that we’ll require the retainer fee to be paid quarterly in advance.” If he agrees, Channing Associates is definitely solvent. If not, we have some creative accounting to do to get through the three months until the fee comes in. I find I’m holding my breath.
“I can’t see a problem with that. Just amend the draft.”
Yes! The fizzing has spread to my limbs now; my legs are literally jiggling with suppressed excitement. “I’ll do that, and we’ll get it back to you as soon as possible. We’re keen to start making progress for you.”
“Excellent. Speak again soon.”
“Absolutely. And thank you again. This is fantastic news.”
I put the phone down and put both palms to my flushed cheeks for a moment, feeling my cheeks bunch in a wondering smile. I look across at the empty desk. “Julie!”
“What?” she calls from the outer room.
“We got it!” I spin in my chair exultantly.
“Got what?”
“The contract!” I’m on my feet now, on my way to her room, but she’s moving, too; we meet in the doorway. “Haft & Weil. We got it!” I realize I’m actually bouncing.
“That’s fantastic!” Impulsively she grabs my hands and begins jumping with me. From the look of relief on her face, I wonder if I should have been paranoid about keeping her as well as Paul.
The external door opens, and Paul comes in, cursing at his disposable cup, which is dripping latte everywhere. He looks askance at Julie and me, still bouncing, our smiles as wide as our mouths can stretch. “What?” He dumps the leaking cup on Julie’s desk and looks from me to Julie and back again, nonplussed. “What?”
“We got it!” I croon. “We got it, we got it, we got it!”
“Haft & Weil?” he asks urgently. “Really?”
I nod, beaming at him. “Awesome!” he roars. “Haft & fucking Weil! Fucking awesome!” Then he’s slinging an arm round each of our shoulders and all three of us are jumping together and grinning inanely, and I think: I should remember times like this, remember perfectly. I should bottle them somehow. You don’t know how many of these moments you might have in your life.